A Childhood in the TARDIS
by AllonsyJawn
Summary: This is going to be a collection of one shots about Sherlock and Mycroft's lives growing up with Rose and the Doctor. This fic syncs up with my other one, Sunday Tea, but they don't necessarily have to be read together. (Doomsday didn't happen, the Doctor has has not regenerated past ten, Bad Wolf Energy keeps Rose young) Rose/Ten, possibly some Johnlock in later chapters.
1. Putting Sherlock to Sleep

**A/N: Yay! I finally got the first one shot up (it only took until 3 AM, I'm more tired than the people in the fic). For those who missed it this is set in the same universe as my other fic Sunday Tea, in which the Doctor and Rose stayed together and made a family with their sons Mycroft and Sherlock. In this one, Rose struggles to get her youngest to turn off his mind and get to sleep. Enjoy!**

Rose yawned. She was not built for this. It was about three in the morning now, and on a normal night, she would have been in bed hours before.

Rose loved her boys, but being a human with two half- Time Lord children could be difficult at times. The boys didn't sleep or eat as much as she did. Usually the Doctor had her covered; when she needed some human time he would stay up with the boys, sometimes for days at a time. He only really slept a few nights out of the week anyway. Unfortunately, this meant when she was alone with her sons it was hard to adjust to their schedules.

They had decided when Mycroft was only eight that the boys needed a stable place to call home. The TARDIS was wonderful, but it wasn't exactly grounded. The boys never knew where they'd be when they walked through the door, and on nights when they were afraid or nervous about the dark or monsters they sometimes refused to go near the front doors. It was like showing your children that the boogeyman could in fact be in their closet any time it wanted, but it could only get them if they left the TARDIS. It wasn't healthy.

Of course it was a bit difficult for them to maintain both a steady home and a life on the TARDIS. The Doctor had offered to lock the box up for twenty years, to take some time off to be nothing but a family, but no one was happy with that idea. The boys were used to life as time travelers, and the idea of being stuck on one planet all the time bothered them even more than it did their father. They'd decided to have a place and attempt to be there as much as possible. They'd go see something extraordinary, then be back before bedtime. Well, usually. Well, once in a while.

The house itself was a special project, in some ways very old and in others quite new. The Doctor designed it himself, reinforcing it with metals from other worlds that would keep it standing for thousands of years, and then had it built for them in the fifteen hundreds on a huge plot of property they had purchased. No one was allowed on the land, but just to be sure he had put a perception filter on all ten acres. People driving nearby didn't even notice the heavily wooded area next to the road, let alone the little house nestled in the center of it. That house was guaranteed to be untouched and still standing no matter when in time they landed. Once they arrived they would flip the sign held on the front of the door from empty to occupied; that way they never had to worry about bumping into future or past versions of themselves. If it was occupied today, they'd just pop ahead a few weeks until it was empty.

Most of what they really needed was kept on the ship, but they decorated it with enough creature comforts to make it pass for a home. The only rooms with extensive decorating were the boys' rooms. Mycroft was thirteen now, and he had been redecorating recently. He hadn't painted over the trees, though. Mycroft loved the look of a forest, and the whole family had painted a mural of trees in his room.

Sherlock was six, and he was still happy to have his room decorated by his parents. Pirates were his favorite, so everything in his room had a nautical theme. There were no fake props in here, either; all of the decorations were souvenirs from their travels. The old helm hung on his wall had once been on a real pirate ship. The murals of waves were paintings they'd based on pictures from their trips to the time period.

The only thing the two boys' room had in common was the ceiling. The Doctor and Rose had painted them together before the family even moved in. Above each boy's bed was a ceiling full of the universe; thousands of stars in their correct places, planets that were visible from Earth, and some that were just out of sight. As Rose lay there in Sherlock's room at three in the morning the stars seemed to swirl in front of her tired eyes. He insisted on having the light on—he'd read a book in the TARDIS library about weeping angels, and ever since he had been insistent that he needed to have some kind of light around him at all time. She had tried to assure him that the dark was not that scary, but one bout with the Vashta Nerada later both he _and_ Mycroft insisted on nightlights.

Rose understood why the Doctor had to be gone for the week, but it didn't make it easier. Jack needed help with a new program his team had confiscated from a crashed alien ship; usually not something the Doctor was interested in. However, supposedly the new program would make it impossible for any sort of violence to happen in the hub itself, making it a very safe place to store dangerous beings. Jack had offered the Doctor a good chunk of the sizeable budget Torchwood had at their disposal as payment to come help them install it and learn how to use it. It was for a good cause, and the money would help keep the boys' bellies full.

Her eyes closed slowly in the dim light, and for just a second she drifted away.

"That's wrong," Sherlock said suddenly, making her jump.

She rubbed her eyes. "What's wrong, Love?" she turned and looked at the little boy laying in the bed next to her. She was resting back on the bedspread, but Sherlock was nestled under the blankets, his gravity-defying black curls bouncing slightly as he shook his head. He was in his pajamas, he had a glass of water, and he'd been up to use the bathroom four times already. They'd been there for hours.

"That star," Sherlock said, pointing up at the ceiling. It's too far to the left."

"Oh. I bet I painted that one. We could fix it tomorrow."

"No, that's okay. I like it the way it is," he said with a small huff, fidgeting in his blankets.

"Okay, bedtime now."

Sherlock nodded, pushing his face into the pillows. He was quiet for a long minute, and Rose was hopeful that he had finally fallen asleep. He turned his face to her suddenly. "Mummy, I'm bored. I don't think it's a sleeping night."

"You've been awake for four days now, Sherlock. It's definitely a sleeping night. Mycroft is asleep in his room, it's your turn now."

"Will you leave if I fall asleep? I don't want you to go."

"I don't have to," she yawned. "I just want to sleep, I don't care where. I'll stay up until you're asleep though."

"Why? That doesn't make sense. You're sleepier than I am."

"I don't want to leave you alone. You need to get some rest."

"You think I'd get up and play, huh?" he asked, pulling his little stuffed hedgehog closer to his chest.

"Yep," she said, with a smile. She scooted a little closer and pulled him into a cuddle, petting back his wild hair. Sometimes it was easy for her to forget how young Sherlock really was. He did not speak like a six year old, and she had a nagging suspicion that he had passed her intelligence a year ago. The key was not letting him know that.

"Why do we sleep more than Daddy?" he asked.

"You know why," she said softly, trying to let her voice sound soothing. "Daddy is from a place where people don't sleep very much, and Mummy is from a place where people sleep every night. You fall somewhere in the middle."

He lay still next to her, and if he were any other child she would have thought he was drifting off. She knew better—she could feel the little ridges in his forehead that meant he was deep in thought. She tried to rub them away, but she knew it was just a matter of time before he asked another question.

Finally he sat up, his little nose wrinkled high on his face. She smirked. This little boy was absolutely beautiful, and he would grow to be a beautiful young man. His chubby cheeks had already receded slightly, and his eyes seemed to not be able to decide whether they wanted to be green or blue. She sighed, pushing him back onto the bed gently. "One more question, Sherlock, then you _have_ to sleep."

"Mummy, am I going to die?"

She stared at him. "What, Baby?"

"I'm getting older. Mycroft too. You and Daddy never get older. The logical progression would mean that Mycroft and I are going to die."

She sat up, squeezing Sherlock's arm. "Sherlock, you shouldn't think about things like that. You are _not _dying, Sweetheart."

"But isn't everybody?" he asked. "Everybody gets old and dies. Even daddy gets older, just really slowly. When you're born, you start to die."

Rose sighed, not exactly sure what to say. She brushed the hair back from his forehead. Sherlock was smart. She realized with a sinking feeling that this was not something he had just thought of tonight. She had to do this carefully, he would detect any lies or condescension. "Sherlock, how old do you think Mummy is?"

He scrunched up his face. "Younger than Daddy. Three hundred, maybe."

She smiled. "Not quite. I'm about fifty."

"That's it?" he asked innocently.

She would have tickled him if she didn't know it would wake him up more than he already was. "That's it. Now I want you to take a minute to think about all of the things I've told you I've done with my life. Think a second about all of the things I've seen, all the people I've met. Everything I've ever done I've done in fifty years."

"That doesn't seem long enough," Sherlock said after a pause.

"That's because time, believe it or not, doesn't really matter that much. It's not how long a life lasts that's important, it's what you do with it. Yes, people do get old. You will get old one day, a very, _very_ long time from now, but when you do you'll have a whole life to look back on, and you'll be happy about that. You've seen more in six years than most people see in their whole lives. You're going to do great things, Sherlock Holmes."

"Why do things have to change, though?" he asked, a bit more quietly. "Why can't things stay the same forever?"

"Things have to end. Otherwise new adventures would never begin. It's not something to be afraid of, it's something to look forward to."

"I shouldn't care about getting old, huh Mummy? 'Cause I'm only six?"

"That's right, Baby."

"Am I a freak, Mummy?"

She shook her head, settling back down and pulling him close to her. She pointed up at the ceiling to the mess of stars over their heads. "You know that star, there? The one that's just a bit different?"

"The one that's wrong?"

"It's not wrong. It's just a little different than the others. I asked if you wanted to paint over it. Do you? Do you want to fix it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I like it. The ceiling would look different if we fixed it.

"Exactly. It's a little bit different, but it's beautiful. That's our family. We're just one family in billions of others, but we're special in a beautiful way. We don't need to be fixed, we're just right."

She felt him smile and some of the tension left his little body. She wondered how long he'd held in this question, but knew he would be too embarrassed to talk about it. Sherlock yawned. "Mummy?"

"Yes, Love?"

"I'm tired. You can sleep in your room. I'll be okay," he muttered, his long eyelashes fluttering a bit.

She chuckled, sliding gently out of the bed. She could tell from the way he slumped across the ship-shaped bed that he was done for the night. She planted a quick kiss on his forehead and then crept silently to the door. As soon as she opened it an old brown dog scurried past her into the room.

She was about to grab him before he woke up Sherlock, but the dog just hopped onto the boy's bed and laid down next to his side. Sherlock's hand came up absently and rested on the animals head, his eyes still closed. "Night, Redbeard," he mumbled.

She closed the door quietly behind her, poking her head in to check on Mycroft for just a moment before she slipped into her own bedroom and settled into the covers of her inviting bed. She heard quiet footsteps down the hall and smiled, recognizing them instantly. Those were not little boy footsteps.

She kept her eyes closed as the door opened and closed, and then she felt the other side of the bed depress as warm arms wrapped around her from behind.

"Missed you," she whispered.

"Missed you," the Doctor whispered, settling into the pillows. "The boys asleep?"

"Only just now," she said. "Could have used you a few minutes ago."

"Sorry," he said, genuine regret in his voice. "Did Sherlock play twenty questions tonight?"

"More like fifty," she laughed softly. "If they knew you were home they'd both be up in a heartbeat."

"That's why I parked on the other side of the property. Didn't want to ruin your progress. I'll check on them later after you fall asleep."

"Won't be long," she murmured as he stroked her hair.

"Goodnight," he whispered into her hair. "Love you."

"Love you, she whispered back, finally giving in to the exhaustion she'd been fighting.

The Doctor did sleep that night; not for very long, but he slept. For one night, everyone in the family slept at the same time. It didn't happen often, but that was okay with them. They were strange, but it was a wonderful strange.


	2. Labels Can be Tricky

**A/N: A very good question by jacks marie got me wondering about why they chose the names Mycroft and Sherlock, so here's a little ficlet to explain that. Enjoy!**

Jackie Tyler grinned down at the squirming month old infant in her arms. The last time she'd seen her daughter, Rose had been very pregnant. The little family of three, Rose, the Doctor, and Mycroft, had turned up on her doorstep just yesterday for a visit. The visits were erratic at best, and sometimes not in the right order. They had all been hoping that she would able to see the new baby as soon as possible. So, as a surprise, they had returned only a day later, relative to her timeline at least.

"He's gorgeous," Jackie said, leaning back in her chair at the table in her flat. "Look at those eyes."

Rose nodded, but the little boy on her lap huffed. "What's wrong, Mike?"

"I don't like him," Mycroft grumbled, crossing his arm. "He makes too much noise."

"You were quite the crier too, you know," Rose said, smoothing out his hair. "Say, I think I hear Daddy calling for some help. Will you run to the TARDIS and help him find the camera?"

Mycroft nodded, hopping off of her lap and scurrying out of the kitchen.

Jackie smirked with a knowing look. "Little jealousy problem?"

Rose nodded with a sigh. "It's only been the last few weeks. He was thrilled about having a baby brother at first. I don't think he likes splitting the attention."

"Well, it's just something he'll have to get used to," his grandmother said, "now that we've got to pay some attention to…what was the name again?"

"Sherlock."

Jackie snorted.

"Hey," Rose frowned.

"Really, Rose? I thought the name _Mycroft_ was bad. You're setting these boys up to be drama queens, you know that?"

"Mycroft means logical thinker and leader," Rose said a bit defensively. "He is both of those things. I stand behind my name choice. You can just call him Mike if you don't like it."

"And _Sherlock_?" she asked.

"It um…it means light hair."

Jackie stared at the dark tufts of hair on the infant.

Rose bit at the tip of her tongue. "I swear, Mum, the week he was born he had the lightest hair you'd ever seen, it looked just like mine. Sherlock was the perfect choice. Honesty, I think his hair changed color just to be difficult."

"You could change it. He's young enough not to notice."

"No… I kind of like it. It shows me not to try to label my boys. They're special, always changing, and they don't like to follow the boring rules. If I start calling him 'shorty' I bet he'll be seven foot tall one day out of spite."

"Mycroft and Sherlock Tyler," Jackie shook her head.

"Not exactly," Rose fidgeted.

Jackie frowned. "Don't tell me you're going with a boring last name like Smith? Oh, God, you're not calling them Mycroft and Sherlock Doctor are you? That's just cruel."

"No. Jack's been helping up with legal documents—technically the boys don't have last names yet. I'm going to let them pick one when they turn thirteen – something that really matters to them, something that reminds them of home."

Jackie rolled her eyes as the Doctor came bouncing in, holding a giggling Mycroft upside down in one arm and a camera in the other.

"Found it!" he cried, positioning himself behind Rose and Jackie. He set Mycroft ankles over his shoulder so that his face would be in the frame, then pulled Rose and her mother closer. Jackie lifted the infant so that you could see his wild, questioning eyes.

"Cheese!" the Doctor called, snapping the photo.

It was a cheap little picture taken on a roll of film that took years to develop, but thirty years later it was the only personal picture that Sherlock Holmes kept on the dresser in his room. Mycroft had one, hanging in the corner of his office, just out of the way enough to not make people ask questions. Jackie Tyler still kept one copy on her coffee table, displayed so that people _would_ ask questions. In the halls of the TARDIS there hung one copy of the picture, enlarged as high as the old photo would allow.


	3. Part 1: John Watson: Babysitter

**A/N: So, as the title implies, this is part one of this ficlet. It was too long for a light collection of one-shots, so I decided to split it up. I'm still working on the adventure that John and Sherlock have with the Doctor and Rose, but this is set a week after they return from that. Reviews are my oxygen. Enjoy!**

Say what you like about how careless the Doctor was about his own life—he was a very careful father to Mycroft and Sherlock. He'd lost children once before. In the horrible days of the Time War, his children and grandchildren had died, and there was nothing he could do but watch it happen. Now he had another chance; he had two boys just as intelligent and wonderful as his others. They would have loved their siblings.

It was this intense need to protect them that made the Doctor think of the idea in the first place. The boys were still young, Sherlock still in diapers, when it occurred to him that he was going to need a list. There were certain people throughout time and space whom the Doctor trusted completely. He knew that if he and Rose were in a bind, or their situation was too gruesome, or heaven forbid they died trying to save some planet or people, that he could absolutely trust these people with his sons.

He emptied out a small compartment under the TARDIS floor, then closed it, not going near it for several weeks. In fact, the family didn't travel at all for those weeks. The TARDIS sat alone in the yard, just out of sight. Rose kept asking him why they were living so linearly, but he told to wait just a bit longer. He wanted to be sure his plan would work before he explained it.

Each day as they lived in the house he made an internal oath to himself and his family, and that was this; that at the end of his life, however many centuries away that may be, he would write a list. On that list he would write the names and space-time coordinates of every person in the universe whom he could turn to with his children in an emergency. Finally, he would use the future version of the TARDIS to travel back to this specific week and find the old version of the TARDIS. He would place the list into the small, empty compartment, all while making no contact with his previous self or the past versions of his family.

After three weeks the Doctor returned to his TARDIS, and to his delight he found the list, penned by his future self, lying in the compartment. There were some names he recognized or course; Sarah Jane Smith, Jack Harkness, Jackie Tyler, The Brigadier, Barbara and Ian, and few other he knew would be capable and willing to help him in a pinch. Some names were of people he had met, but didn't necessarily trust yet. He wondered what great act former-Prime Minister Harriet Jones must have pulled to warrant her spot on the exclusive list.

Other names were entirely foreign to him. Vashtra and Jenny, Professor Song, Sam and Dean W, and something known only as 'the Ponds', to name a few. However, he had complete confidence in his future self. If he had decided (or rather, would one day decide) that these people could take care of the boys, then he believed it entirely.

It was about eight years since he had received the list, and it had come in handy a dozen times at least. Today was no exception. The Sontarans were on earth in the 3,765, and no one was safe. They had placed cars around the Earth—Atmos cars—and poison was pouring from the vehicles. There was still a chance to save everyone with minimal casualties, and he and Rose were grasping at that chance. They decided together at almost the same moment that this was not safe. If they failed for some reason, no one on Earth would survive.

The little family was at a UNIT base when they made the decision. Rose told him to go, get the boys somewhere safe, and then come back as fast as possible. He promised he would, and then scooped up the eight year old Sherlock and grabbed his brother's arm, pulling him along into the TARDIS.

"We don't have to go!" an indignant Mycroft argued as the Doctor pulled the list from its designated spot. "I'm fifteen, I can handle myself with a few Sontarans."

"Non-negotiable," the Doctor said. "Maybe in a year or so."

"I could help _now_."

"But your brother can't," the Doctor said, laying a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "He's too young, and I wouldn't send him somewhere on his own. I trust you to help look after him."

"You have people to trust," Mycroft insisted. "That's what the list is for. I know how to get into the Sontaran mainframe, Dad."

"So do I."

"But you'll be busy negotiating. Mum doesn't understand the software. I know the risks, and I'm old enough to make the choice."

The Doctor sighed, running a hand over his face. "God, your mother is going to kill us both."

Mycroft grinned, giving Sherlock a quick hug before running back out into UNIT to help a very resistant Rose.

"I'm going by myself?" Sherlock asked his father warily.

"Not for long, I promise," the Doctor said, searching frantically through the list.

"Can I go to Uncle Jack?"

The Doctor bit his lip. "You've stayed with Uncle Jack a lot lately, I'm afraid of crossing time streams."

He examined the list, trying to find someone at least fairly familiar. He squinted, seeing something small in parenthesis next to one of the unfamiliar names.

Dr. John H. Watson (especially for Sherlock)

The Doctor frowned. He hadn't meant to be so specific, but if he would one day choose to specify that this man was particularly good at watching Sherlock then there must have been a good reason. He set in the space time coordinates underneath the name as Sherlock peeked at the list.

"Which one?" Sherlock asked.

"New guy," the Doctor said as the TARDIS whirled to life.

Sherlock hopped into the bench, clicking on the seatbelt he always wore when the ship was in the vortex. "I don't like new people."

"I think you'll like this one," he said pulling the ship to a quick landing. "Stay right there, I'm going to make sure it's safe."

BreakBreakBreakBreakBreakBreakBreakBreakBreakBreak

John Watson had just walked back into the flat after work when he heard the sound of the TARDIS echoing through the rooms. He pulled off his jacket quickly, calling out for Sherlock. No one answered, and he remembered the detective saying something Lestrade calling for assistance before he went to work. The case had seemed too trivial this morning, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the severe lack of anything to do the last week had pushed Sherlock onto a relatively boring case.

He called his flat-mate's phone, but it went immediately to voicemail. "You're going to regret going out, Sherlock. Your parents are back already. Get home when you can."

John smiled, watching the little blue box materialize in front of him. It had been only a week since he'd first met Rose and the Doctor, but he was glad to see that they were safe. He found himself worrying about the couple since that first day—their chosen lot in life was dangerous work. He wondered how Sherlock could cope, never knowing if his parents were in a life or death situation. Actually, being Sherlock probably helped.

When the TARDIS was finally in the living room the door popped open and the Doctor stuck his head out. He smiled at John. "Hello there!"

"Hello," John said, stepping forward to grab the man's hand for a brief moment. "How've you been, Doctor?"

"Oh, good, you know who I am. That'll save us some time."

John furrowed his brow. "It's me, Doctor. John Watson. We met a week ago."

"Well," the Doctor said with a shrug, "you don't look terribly surprised to see a blue box appear in your living room, so I'm going to guess you've traveled with me before."

"Just the once," John said, still confused. "You don't remember."

"As you probably know then, the TARDIS is a time machine. Things don't always happen to me in the right order. You've met me, I but I have not yet met you. Understand?"

"I…I think so," he said. He'd tried to write all this down the week before, just to wrap his head around certain concepts, but it all seemed like some form of nonsensical madness.

"Good!" the Doctor said. "Sherlock!" he called into the TARDIS. "Come out here."

"Sherlock's in there?" John asked.

"Oh good! You know Sherlock too, that'll save even more time."

"Of course I know Sherlock, I'm his—"

"Ah, ah!" The Doctor said, covering his ears. "I try not to peek ahead at the boys' futures. We are trying to let them live their lives as linearly as possible. No spoilers. Don't tell me who you are, and don't tell him. All I know is that you're on my trustable list, it doesn't bother me if you're Sherlock's landlord, or plumber, or boyfriend."

John was about to protest when a small boy poked his head out of the TARDIS. He was about to ask who it was, but the words caught in his throat. He knew those eyes, that hair, that apprehensive glance around the apartment. He'd never seen the boy before in his life, but he knew exactly who he was.

"Sher…Sherlock?" he asked.

The boy nodded, looking at John with a suspicious glint in his eye. "Who are you?"

"I...Um, I'm John Watson. A friend of yours."

"He's lying, Dad," Sherlock said in a loud whisper. "I don't have friends."

John chuckled once. "Sure you do. We're friends. Or, we will be."

"Stay close to John, so what he says, don't set anything on fire," the Doctor said, patting Sherlock on the head as he hopped back into the TARDIS.

John stared at the boy for a second, and then the Doctor's words hit him. "I—Doctor wait! Where are you going?"

"Emergency, no time for explanations. Look after Sherlock for me, I trust you completely, apparently. I'll be back as soon as possible." He called. The box was already disappearing before he had a chance to answer.

He turned and looked at the little boy observing him, mouth hanging open a bit. He was not one to babysit often, if ever, and he had no idea what he was doing. He told himself to calm down—it was just Sherlock, after all. He knew this person, though he wasn't used to seeing him so young. He redialed the number on his phone again, holding it limply to his ear.

"Mate, get home,_ soon_," he said.

The younger version of his flat mate tilted his little head to one side. "Your name is John?"

"Yeah."

"John, has anyone ever told you that you look like a hedgehog?"


	4. Part 2: John Watson: Babysitter

John tapped his foot, sitting quietly in his chair. Across from him sat a small boy with wild, dark curls and apprehensive eyes. They sat in awkward silence, but John could feel those changeling eyes rolling over him. How much could they deduce? Sure, as an adult Sherlock had been able to figure out everything about him with a glance. He had a feeling that was a learned skill, but how long had the man studied it before he became what he was today?

"Are you a doctor?" the boy asked suddenly.

John blinked at him. "Yes. I am."

"A real doctor, or a doctor like my Dad?"

"A real one," he smiled.

The boy nodded, pulling his legs up to his chest. He looked away from John shyly, clutching one of his pant-legs.

John raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

Sherlock jumped. "Sorry? What?"

"You just figured out I was a doctor. Aren't you going to tell me how you deduced that?"

He eyed the man suspiciously. "You…you want to know? Really?"

"Sure," he nodded.

"You…you have a jacket by the door. It looks like it's your size. There's a little metal disc sticking down from the pocket. It's too big to be a watch, besides, the look of your computer over there means we're probably in the early 21st century. By that time most people just got their time from their phones. Balance of probability says it is probably the end of a stethoscope. Only doctors carry stethoscopes."

John smiled. It was an easy deduction, really, but not one he himself would have realized. "Amazing, as usual."

Sherlock tilted his head a bit in confusion, but he saw a ghost of a smile on the boy's face. Suddenly the quiet demeanor seemed to vanish from him. "Are you a scientist too, John?"

He frowned. "No."

"I like science," he said, looking around the room. "Everything is made of science, you know? Atoms are science, and everything in the whole wide universe is made of atoms."

"Um, yeah," he nodded. "It's interesting, but—"

"Are those beakers?" he asked suddenly, peering sheepishly into the kitchen.

John frowned, seeing the mess his flat mate had left on the table. "I suppose so."

"Can I…Can I go look at them?"

"Oh, uh, yeah of course—"

The boy jumped from the chair running into the kitchen and peering into the glass cylinders.

"Careful!" he called. "I don't know what's in those."

Sherlock was standing up on a chair, peering down at the assorted chemicals. Apparently the lack of respect for furniture was a longstanding trait. He picked up a set of charts, staring at them with a wide grin. "Oh, I get it!" he cried. "These are liquefied human eyeballs. You want to see how they settle in the jars, right?"

John winced. He couldn't exactly explain to the little boy that this was actually be his experiment one day. "Actually, the science stuff is not mine. It belongs to my roommate."

"Oh," Sherlock said, looking a bit disappointed. "Can I ask a question?"

John nodded.

Sherlock sat on the chair he'd been standing on. "Why did you lie to my Dad?"

"Lie about what?"

Sherlock looked away from him. "You said I was your friend. I don't have friends."

John wasn't sure what to do. "It's not a lie. Really. If anything, Sherlock, I think you're my best friend."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "Prove it."

"Well," John stuttered a bit, "you like sugar in your tea. More than you should really."

"I'm eight, of course I like sugar. What else?"

"You like pirates," John said quickly, remembering something Rose had mentioned when he'd first met her. "Bees. I think you mentioned something about liking bees last week. You play the violin."

"No I don't."

"Would you like to?"

He nodded.

"Well, there you go, you're going to learn. Then there's the whole Mind-Palace thing. You store your memories in there so you can keep them all organized."

Sherlock stared at him in awe. "I just started building a Mind Palace last week. I haven't even told Mummy about it yet."

"You see? I'm your friend."

Sherlock grinned. He was about to say something when there a knock at the door. The boy gasped and dived underneath the kitchen table, hiding himself expertly. John felt a twinge of empathy—how often had this boy needed to hide to know how to do it so well? It was just as well, he didn't know how he would explain it to whoever was at the door.

The knock came again, more insistent this time. John rushed to the door, already making an excuse.

"Terribly sorry, we're ill today. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow—"

"_Please_, John," Mycroft said as he walked quickly into the room, shaking a bit of light rain from his umbrella. "Sherlock's never been sick a day in life. You should come up with a better excuse for him."

John blinked, trying not to let his gaze dart over to the table. Could Mycroft know? He wasn't sure of all of the rules. "Right." He said simply.

"Well, where is he?" Mycroft asked.

"Who?"

The man frowned. "My brother, of course."

"Um… Sherlock is…well—"

"I told him this morning that I'd be stopping by. He hasn't gone out on that boring Hofstede case, has he? It's painfully obvious that the husband did it. I suspect he just wanted to avoid me."

"Could be," John nodded. "Sorry to disappoint you. I can tell him to call you when he gets home, but I can't be sure he'll do it."

"Well," Mycroft said, crossing to the center of the room and leaning against the desk, "it's just as well, I suppose. I was looking for both of you."

"You were looking for me?" John asked, sitting at sofa. "Why?"

"I understand that we need to have a discussion."

"Is this one of those hush-hush national security threats? You could have just sent a text at this point, I get it."

Mycroft smirked. "This has nothing to do with the greater good of Britain, I'm afraid, but nonetheless it does have to do with security. Am I to understand that you met our parents last week?"

"Oh," John said, a bit surprised. "Yes. I've met them."

"I see," he nodded. "Tell me, while they were here, did they happen to discuss...home life? Vacations, perhaps?"

John nodded. "I know about the TARDIS, if that's what you're asking."

"How much do you know?" Mycroft asked.

There was the pattering of small feet, and then suddenly the young Sherlock was right in the middle of the living room, peering up at the middle-aged Mycroft. The man jumped, looking down in complete shock.

"I thought that was your voice," Sherlock said to his brother, hopping up to sit next to John on the sofa. "You got bald. And fat."

Mycroft stared at the boy, his mouth open slightly. "Sherlock? How old are you?"

"Eight," he said. "How old are you?"

Mycroft snorted. "Older. John, I assume this means you know quite a lot, yes?"

John nodded.

The other man tapped his fingers. "Well, then, I need to be certain you understand the gravity of the trust placed on you. There are organizations that would kill to get ahold of my parents and their ship. Since members of my family have decided to bring you into this confidence you need to be aware that the eyes watching you are going to be twice as vigilant as before. If you were to betray that confidence—"

"Are you John's friend too, Mycroft?" the boy asked, cutting him off midsentence.

Mycroft frowned. "I suppose."

"Do you know how he takes his tea, too?"

"No, I don't."

"Then you're not very good friends, are you?"

John snorted. Mycroft pursed his lips. "I suppose you're right."

Sherlock crossed his arms, leaning back into the cushions. "Then John is my friend, not yours! Don't yell at him!"

"I wasn't _yelling_, Sherlock—"

"You _always_ sound like you're yelling. I get my _very own_ friend, and you don't get to bully him. Only I get to bully him."

"Sherlock," he said in a stern voice, "what am I right now?"

"A bully," he mumbled, pulling his knees up to his chest the way he'd done when he first got there. John smiled a bit realizing it was a defense mechanism. The boy liked to make himself as small as possible. No wonder the adult Sherlock curled up on the couch when he was sulking.

"I'm the _adult_ right now. The adults are talking about a very serious matter."

"Don't talk to me like I'm a child."

"You _are_ a child."

"You and I both know that half-Time Lords age mentally very fast. I understand what you're talking about. You're telling John that he has to keep quiet about Mum and Dad, but that's _obvious_. He's smart, like us. He knows he shouldn't go telling people about aliens, they'd lock him up. You just like to scare people."

John fought against a smile. "He's right though, Mycroft. I wouldn't tell anyone. Your family is safe."

Mycroft sighed, crossing over and looking down at the small boy. For just a moment he saw something melt on the man's face, and Mycroft reached down to fix the boy's hair. "The Sontaran affair?"

Sherlock nodded.

"It was over very quickly, no one will get hurt. Father should be along in a few minutes. Don't be afraid."

Sherlock shrugged. "I wasn't afraid," he said, too quietly to be true.

"Of course you weren't," My croft said, uncharacteristically soft as he headed toward the door. "Nice to see you, little brother, but it would be best if I am not here when Father returns to collect you. Timelines and all, you know. Very tricky subject. John, please tell the adult Sherlock to call me when he gets home. He may actually do it if he remembers this conversation."

Mycroft was out the door, but the damage had been done. The boy was staring at John. "What did he mean, 'tell me when I get home'?"

"Um," John said, trying to think quickly, "well, you know, we're friends. We visit each other a lot."

The boy frowned. Of course he knew it was a lie, this was Sherlock after all. "Where's your room, John?"

"Upstairs."

"So, that one," he asked pointing, "that's your flat-mate's room?"

"Yes."

The boy jumped off of the sofa racing towards the bedroom.

"Sherlock, wait!" John cried, running after him. He was far too late.

The little boy ran into the room, taking in the basic patterns of the walls and simple furniture buried under the mountain of papers and books. He seemed to be looking for something very specific.

"Come on, your Dad will be here any minute," John tried to remind him.

"Here it is!" the boy cried, holding up a little framed picture on the dresser. John looked at it in surprise, he had never even noticed the little photograph before. It was a modest portrait of Rose, the Doctor, and another, older woman that looked a lot like Rose. In the older woman's arms lay a small baby with black curls, and over the Doctor's shoulder he was holding a young boy, about the age little Sherlock was now.

"What's that?"

"It's our family photo," the boy beamed. "John…do I live here? Do I live here with you?"

"Well…yes, okay Sherlock? This is our flat. We live here together."

The boy clutched the picture, looking wildly around the room. He set it back on the dresser and ran out towards the kitchen, staring intently at the eyeballs in jars. "Are these _mine_, John?"

John nodded.

Sherlock jumped on the chair, obviously very pleased. The now familiar sound of the TARDIS filled the room.

"Oh no!" Sherlock cried, sinking into a pout on the chair as the little blue box appeared. As soon as the Doctor opened the door he was in front of it, shaking his head vigorously. "Dad, I'm not ready to leave! I want to stay here with John for a while! Please?"

The Doctor stared at him, a bit shocked. "Mum and Mycroft are waiting for us," he said finally. "Another day, I promise. Go buckle up."

Sherlock huffed, whirling around and giving John a tight hug. John hugged him back, albeit quite awkwardly, and the boy walked sluggishly into the TARDIS. "Bye, John! I'll see you again really soon. We're going to have fun when I'm big, right?"

"Absolutely," he called after him.

The Doctor stared at John in amazement. "Wow. Do you have any idea how fast he usually jumps in the TARDIS when I come to pick him up? He's doesn't like to be anywhere without Rose. Who _are _you?"

"What was the word you used earlier?" John asked. "Um, _spoilers_, right?"

The Doctor chuckled. "Oh, yes! Can't have that, can we? Thank you, John Watson."

They shook hands for a moment, and then he closed the TARDIS doors and began to disappear.

"Daddy?" John heard as the box became transparent. "Did you know Mycroft's going to be bald? Can I tell him?"

John heard the door open as the adult version of Sherlock walked into the flat to see the TARDIS fading away. "Oh," the detective said, "I've just missed my parent's then? I've only just got your messages."

John smiled at him. "Yeah. Nothing important. Just stopping by to say hello."

Sherlock was staring at him, something unreadable in his expression.

"You alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock said quickly, tossing his jacket onto the floor. With two long bounds of his legs he crossed the room and hugged John tightly, taking the older man completely by surprise.

John patted his back a bit awkwardly. After a long moment, Sherlock pulled away, looking just as surprised as John.

"Um, are you sure you're okay? What was that for?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it, eyes darting about in confusion. "I really have absolutely no idea. I'm just…glad to be home? Is that weird?"

"No," John said, patting him once on the shoulder. "You want to order in?"

"Sure," Sherlock said, going to fuss with his beakers at the kitchen table.

John smiled. Sherlock never did get to be a pirate like he wanted, but he had a feeling there were things more important to him. Sherlock had what he had wanted as a child, and he'd never have to go without it again.


	5. Ties That Bind

**A/N: This one technically breaks my own rules, because Sherlock isn't necessarily a child. He is however pre-John Watson, and the flashback scene, I believe, qualifies it. Sherlock is around 25. I've been trying to write little ACITT fics but this little plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone. Let me know if you have any ideas for shorts in this fic! Thanks to everyone for the reviews and support. Enjoy!**

The windows of the Mind Palace were closed. The curtains were drawn shut tight, and not an inch of light filtered into small room Sherlock had set himself inside. He could not see the doors, but he knew they were all locked. No historical figures wandered the walls, spouting off random facts about their lives and accomplishments. He was fairly certain he'd laid out a comprehensive report on the different types of tobacco ash in another room, but he couldn't remember which one.

Sherlock smiled. He loved not remembering.

For a long while after he woke up, he got to simply lie on the ground, not feeling anything. It was always like this when he sobered up. Slowly, more slowly than usual, he began to become aware of his body. Not this body, lying on a nice cool floor in his Mind Palace, but the 'real' one. The _transport. _It was the enemy that carried him around when he was stuck in the outside world. He refused to acknowledge that body just yet. This was a process, and it had to be done in order. There was a checklist.

Did he know who he was? Yes. Sherlock Tyler Holmes. Did he know where he was? Umm…he could get back to that one. How old was he? Twenty five. What had he taken? Heroin, definitely. Perhaps laced with opium, that usually his favorite type. How long? Well…

He frowned. He usually had a decent timeframe as to how long he'd lost during a blackout. Nothing was coming to him now. Where was he?

He tried to focus on the last thing he could remember. He was in the house on Darter Street, the abandoned one that people squatted in sometimes. His usual dealer stayed in the basement, and usually found a little spot in the upper levels to…well…consume what he had purchased.

Something was off though. He felt his transport sniff at the air around him. It didn't smell like the house on Darter Street. The scent was familiar, of course, but not right for where he had passed out. Had he been moved? Being abducted in some way was a danger here—he had known a few friends who had passed out and woken up in chains. He needed to figure out where he was, and he needed to do it quickly.

"Please!" a voice broke through the silent barrier around his palace so suddenly that it shook the imaginary walls, fading in and out. "Please, Sherlock….don't think that…why…Sherlock!"

"Alive," another voice broke through in the wake of the last. "I promise…he's alive…"

Sherlock was confused. Voices didn't usually make it through to his palace, and no one here knew his real name.

The calm room he was in melted around him, turning into another room entirely. Not a real room—this was just another part of his palace, a little memory tucked away. He blinked in surprise, this wasn't a memory he visited often.

It was his room. Not his room at the tiny flat he was renting right now, but his _real_ room, the one from his childhood. He sat on his old bed, looking around at the nostalgic decorations. Of course it was a bit wrong—he had grown out of this pirate theme years before. This was his room, but as it was when he was a child. He shook, his head, trying to get his bearings. Why would his mind bring him here?

The door to the room opened, and a memory walked through. It was his mother, smiling, bright-faced, in an old Union-Jack tee-shirt he remembered from his childhood. She walked up to him, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder.

"_Hey Sweetheart,"_ the memory said, running her free hand through his hair as though she were addressing a young child instead of a grown man. _"Do you want to talk?"_

"Talk about what?" he asked.

She gave him a look as she sat next to him on the bed, taking his hand. "_About what happened today, Sherlock. Don't pretend you weren't afraid. It was a scary day. Everyone was afraid."_

Sherlock wracked his brain, trying to figure out what she was talking about. "I remember this. When I was eight I was kidnapped. It was just for an hour or two, nothing terribly drastic. Father had me back in the TARDIS before supper."

"_You were taken by a _Dalek,_ Sherlock. It's okay to be afraid when you're in danger. I was afraid, Dad was afraid, even Mycroft was afraid."_

"I wasn't. Statistically, Father usually wins against the Daleks. They didn't want to kill me, they wanted to use me as a bargaining chip, and I it. It was the equivalent of being yelled at for two hours by angry salt and pepper shakers. I told you that I didn't need to talk about it, but you bothered me about it for two days, convinced I need to talk about the experience."

"_And you never did,"_ she said simply, laying her hand against the side of his face. _"I asked and asked but you never wanted to admit that you were upset. I could see it, the way you dropped your fork at dinner, the way you kept your room door open at night for four days, I saw it all. The night after you got home and you thought everyone was asleep, you looked into our room for five whole minutes just to make sure you weren't alone."_

"Why am I even revisiting this?" Sherlock asked himself, looking around the room. "Seems a bit random."

"_You still don't understand,"_ she said softly. _"Sherlock I've always tried to show you, but you just won't listen to me. When you hurt, when you're scared, you don't have to pretend. Don't hide, Sweetheart. You don't have to hide in here where the world can't see you. There will always be someone who loves you who will pull you out."_

"I have no idea what you're talking about—"

Sherlock heard the slap before he felt it. A hand came across the side of his face, hard enough to whip his head to the side. It wasn't the memory of his mother, she was sitting calmly beside him. It didn't happen in the Mind Palace—that meant it had to be happening in the real world. Someone had slapped his real face.

A voice rang out around him again. "Sherlock! Sherlock!"

The hand slapped against the side of his face again, hard enough to shake his teeth, and with a sudden crash he felt the Mind Palace crumble around him. He took a sharp breath and opened his eyes, his real eyes, gasping for breath. At first everything was blurry, but he saw someone in front of him. His body was tied firmly to something with soft ties, and he was sitting in a char of some kind. He tugged at the binds as his vision swam. He blinked finally realizing who was in front of him.

"Rose?" he asked softly, staring at her raised hand.

"Doctor!" she screamed. "He's alive! Doctor he's awake!"

Sherlock looked around, quickly realizing where he was. "The TARDIS? How did I get into the TARDIS?"

Rose was crying. The lights around him were still slow and sluggish to his eyes, but he saw his mother now with perfect clarity. She placed a hand on his face, over the cheek she had just slapped. It was a comforting gesture, but her face was not as soft. She was glaring at him.

"How could you?" she whispered.

"What?" he asked.

"How could you?" she asked again, louder this time. She grabbed his arm, pulling it out in front of him and sliding up his sleeve, showing the small pinpricks on the inside of his elbow.

Sherlock sighed, turning his head from Rose. "Rose, I—"

"No, I don't think so," she spat at him. "If you're about to try to explain to me why I had to find my son in an abandoned house with a needle in his arm, you talk to me as your mother."

He sighed again, rubbing his face. "Mum, I'm sorry, this isn't a big deal—"

She raised her hand as though she was going to slap his face again, but stopped herself. "You were dead."

"What?"

The Doctor walked into the consul room, holding a small bundle in his arms. He wasn't angry, not the way Rose was, but his blank face and silence resonated in the room with a crushing gravity. The Doctor was never really quiet. He always had something to say, a fact to deliver, or a reassurance to share. Now, as he knelt in front of Sherlock and took a wet, sterile wipe to his son's arm, he said nothing. Sherlock couldn't look at him.

"You were dead," Rose said again. "The purity of what you dosed yourself with was more than 90 percent, Sherlock. You injected way too much. You overdosed and you died."

"I'm…I'm not…"

The Doctor held up a small device from his pocket, not looking up from his work. "Future tech. It can reanimate a recent victim, if administered in less than three minutes. We got there in two and a half."

Sherlock blinked. "How did you even know where I was?"

The Doctor dropped what he was working on, and the sudden gaze from his eyes to Sherlock's was too intense. The young man looked away.

"We've been looking for you," the Doctor said incredulously. "We've been trying to visit you for six months, Sherlock. Every time, every single time we tried to contact you, there was something else going on. Did you think no one was watching? Mycroft knows you've been visiting those…places. You've been missing from your flat for a week. We've walked through every drug den in London for days, trying to find you!"

He could hear the absolute frustration ringing in his words. Sherlock looked away from the Doctor, pulling once against the ties. "I'm awake. I'm not going to fall out of the chair. Can you untie me?"

The Doctor said nothing, but he and Rose shared a look. He took the medical wipe and balled it up, tossing it into a waste basket they had placed a few feet away.

Sherlock frowned. He suddenly realized that there were a few things around him that usually weren't. There was the trashcan, a few feet away. The chair he was tied to was not usually in the consul room, but when he wiggled he realized it was bolted to the floor. There were water bottles and fruit and blankets spread on the floor. "What's going on?"

Rose tapped the Doctor's arms and he nodded, kissing her once on the forehead. He sighed, looking at his son, and then placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He didn't say anything, and he wasn't really looking at him, but the message was clear. He was angry, so angry, but there were only three people in the universe that were completely safe from the fury of the Last Time Lord, and Sherlock was one of them. The Doctor stepped out of the room, letting Rose have a minute alone with her son.

"Untie me, Mum," he said again.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Not this time."

He struggled once against the ties. "What? What are you talking about?"

"We knew you used. At least a few times before now, we knew you experimented with drugs, and we didn't do anything because we thought you were smart enough to realize how dangerous it was. It's my fault, I thought you were just trying to explore things, I thought it was a fluke. Baby, I never thought you'd get addicted."

"I'm not—"

"Don't," she said sternly. "You've been gone a week. How many times have you shot up this week, Sherlock?"

He rubbed the side of his head. "I don't…I don't know…"

"I know. I know, Sweetheart. This is partly my fault, so I'm going to fix it."

"Fix it?"

"You're staying, Sherlock. You're staying right there, in that chair, until it's all out of your system. Cold turkey." She held a hand over her mouth, her eyeliner rolling down a bit with her tears.

He stared at her incredulously. "You—you can't. That would literally kill me. The withdrawals are fatal—"

"Not with the Doctor's equipment. We can keep you alive without a single drop of heroin ever touching your system again. The withdrawal…it's going to hurt. Oh, God, Sherlock it's going to hurt. And I'm so sorry."

He struggled, trying to stand from the chair. "You can't do this!"

"I love you," she said simply, kissing him once on the forehead. She turned on her heel, walking away from him.

"Rose!" he called. "Rose, wait!"

She didn't turn around.

"Mummy!" he called.

She froze, glancing back over her shoulder.

"Where are you going?" he cried out, still trying to get free.

"The detox has already been accelerated by the Doctor's machines. You should still be unconscious, but everything is in fast forward. That doesn't mean the withdrawal will be much faster, but you'll move through steps quicker. I can't…I can't be here when that happens."

"Why not?"

"Because I'll untie you," she said, not willing to look at him anymore. "I love you too much to do that." She walked away.

"Mum!" he called. "Mum! Doctor! Please! Don't do this!"

He could feel it now. He could feel sweat stinging his pores. He gasped, trying to breathe as his vision swam. "Mum! Mum! Dad!"

Unbeknownst to Sherlock, Rose stood only a room away. The Doctor held her, petting her hair. This would be the hardest few days they had ever spent on the TARDIS. They would not travel. The Doctor would never budge the box, and Rose would not ask him to. They would bring him his water, some food, a blanket when the sweating turned into shivering, but for the most part he was to be alone.

When it is over, the Doctor will offer to wipe it from his mind. He will decline.

Years later, sitting in his flat in Baker Street, he will remember that time and stare at John Watson as he sleeps in his chair in front of the fireplace. He will know that he will never be tied to that chair again. Someday, something entirely different will tether him into place and remind him to keep himself alive. Not all ties were binding.


End file.
